I remember the first time
someone handed me Faulkner to read. Was it February? That would be
about right. It seems that it was. A teacher who handed me many
voices. Ayn Rand. Vonnegut.
February, a short month,
not a greedy one, a blur this year. February comes and goes rather
quickly. Sometimes a time of loss. Words and names I don't want to
go into right now.
Two years ago, I made a
pilgrimage back into The Sound and the Fury. It was a furious time, snow
pelting the road. I slid twice. I was a pallbearer for the first
time in my life. It probably won't be the last.
Did I think of Addie being
carried off to her burial site? I wish I could say I did, but I was too
concerned with the cold temperatures, working my way through pages at
night. Wondering if electricity would stay.
The blip that was this
February did not allow me a march back into Faulkner. It is perhaps the
case that I will make a late return this spring, allowing my consciousness to
stream alongside the author's, thinking again of meeting him the first time so
many years ago.